Insufferable yearning

I want things that maybe you can't give me. I want your skin on mine, the heat of your pulse mingled with mine. I want to savor your body with slow, intuitive kisses, smoke out all the divots of design on your flesh. I want to linger in communicative touch, caress all my secrets into your sinews. I want your exhalations filling up my lung; want the length of our bodies to merge in precision, hips and knuckles perfectly aligned and tangled. I want the cool, alert taste from your mouth, want the warm, silvered electricity trickling from your cock. I want the deep utterances of your concentration permeating the room, penetrating my ears. I want the coils of your pubic hair careening my tongue, brushing against my eyelashes. I want the delirium of your hips pumping into mine, the delirium of internal mechanisms rotating under your key. I want the sharpness of your clavicles against the taut of your traps, above the virile bulk of your chest. I want the earthy hues of your body hair flecked with prismatic sweat, radiating pheromones. I want your juice, all your juice, all the effort and love and history it took to make that juice, to flood every piece of me until I drown. I want to be forever open to your advances, open forever for you and only you, malleable and pliable just for you, begging forever to fill me, overwhelm me, with the expansive illumination of you. 

Cum Slut; a biologically screaming for impregnation

I’m fertility on fire.

I’ve been having daydream after daydream about his cum.

His cum: crawling through the pores of my cervix, trickling the tapestry of my womb, the excess slowly seeping out the pink curled edges of my labias. A trillion daydreams about his cum, oceans of it, graffiti’ing my uterus, filling me up, ballooning belly and breasts.

A trillion daydreams of his cum for a trillion babies, as if my only use was to reproduce, with my tits swollen to 3x their usual size, oozing gallons of milk for months on end. Somehow his cum is only intoxicating if it retains its ability to hijack my biological function. Overthrow the ruckus of my cycle.

Engrave your name in my womb.

Lately, I’ve been masturbating thinking of him cumming at the top of my pussy’s slit, on the fuzz of remnant pubic hair. He’ll scoop a thick finger-ful of his seed between his index and middle finger. I’ll pin back the layers of my cunt with my hands, creating an unobstructed pathway dripping with impatience. He’ll turn the juice upwards, coaxing his fingers into my spread lips, massaging his cum into the far end of my pussy with deep, methodically thrusts. He’ll suck my clit as my pussy muscles forcefully pulse, extracting all that cum off his fingers, internally sucking them clean.

I cum so hard thinking of that, thinking of his burrowing cum ceremoniously cemented into my cunt. I cum so hard thinking about blooming with his baby. And that’s fucking wild. That’s fucking insane. Because I don’t want another kid. Lord fucking no, not another kid. I know what kind of sleep-starved care goes into a little kid. I know how unglamorously unsexy it is to birth new life.


But my feral fucking fertility doesn't care. He can jerk me around by the hands of my jangling clock, gladly, menacingly. Make me a slave to my dumb biological imperative. My body wants gallons and gallons of his cum, want 60,000 of his offspring as proof of purchase.



I am fertility on fucking fire.


It’d be the end of life itself if I really got pregnant but my body does not give a fucking damn. I cum so hard, the hardest that I’ve cum in a long time, envisioning him getting me pregnant.

Atomic Anal & Other Deaths by Pleasure

If I could knight his dick with any name, it’d be “Atom Smasher”.

 

It’s because so often his cock insides me conjures a feeling of “undoing”, of being so utterly riddled with pleasure that the very molecules of my body will combust. I’ve straddled his cock and rocketed into my umpteenth orgasm and then skidded to a halt mid-thrust. He looks at me with that adoring face—that face that makes my heart skip—and asks me if I’m okay, if I’m in pain. It’s never ever pain that stops me. It’s the distinct sensation that I’m about to lose all control. Lose command of my everything and become a sweaty heap of guttural moans, contorted expressions, and permanently forfeit the ability to form declarative sentences. When I stop, it’s only because my next orgasm is imminent and I sincerely can’t contextualize whether or not I can die from such intensity. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels so good the ends of my hair seem to be singing. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels like my entire body is about to completely dissipate, dissolve, nullify itself because bodies aren’t made to withstand the magnitude of that kind of pleasure.

But really, when we’re fucking, when I am gasping and idiotic and hell bent on orgasmic suicide, I just call his cock “Magic”.

Magic Cock, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass. OH FUCKING CHRIST. My motherfucking ass. There was no way either one of us could have known when we first met that his cock was made for my ass. The first time we had sex, it happened to be anal and it was like I had never had an orgasm before. Anal sex is not necessarily a frequent landmark of my past: yeah, booty sex happened but not with such frequency and vigor. This man puts his cock in my ass and my whole being seizures, flushes, grinds like no tomorrow. He makes me shameless, undulating greedily in a cesspool of sensation. My pussy swells with so much pink arousal it’s like it’s in full bloom. I seep down between my cheeks. I get so wet we seldom have to use lube.

Magic Cock Atom Smasher, my favorite cock in the world.

He tells me that when I cum I always look so surprised. As if I didn’t see it coming. As if I’m a beginner to this newfangled world of sex. But it’s true. I’m flabbergasted by his ability to make me orgasm so lethally. I’ve been carrying this booty around for nearly 30 years: when the hell did the secret extra clit appear in there?! He jams his cock so deep inside my asshole, pushing to the hilt. While I slow-grind in overstimulation I can’t stop from pouting over and over again “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand! Why does it feel sooooooooo good? Why, why, why, whyyyy?”

Why, baby? How, baby? How is your cock made of magic?

He humors me with answers, sometimes, as I’m humping and frenzying on about not understand my own body’s capacities for pleasure. Later on, he sends me links about female anatomy and how the internal structure of the clit is a much bigger, dynamic set of nerves than just my pink nub. He plunges in extra deep and moans in my ear “Because I’m fucking your clit, baby”. He’s severing my most sensitive and blissful parts in half. I slide back down onto him and he whispers to me sweetly “….Because you love me…”

Oh. Yeah.

Yes, that.

I love him. Adore him. Get so oozy with oxytocin the minute he’s in my line of vision. He makes me feel so safe, so secure, so sexy with his words and caresses. More than that, he gives me so much space to be myself and that just makes me want to get close, close, close to him. He’s one of the sweetest souls to ever touch me and that’s why it’s so hot when he drops his guard a little and roughs me up. When he digs his teeth into the honey spot of my neck, when he yanks me by my hair, when he grunts and groans and penetrates me mercilessly when he’s so close to cumming. All of that’s sexy. When he cooks me the perfect steak, massages my aching muscles when I overdid it lifting, when he strokes my hair and kisses my forehead post-glow. All of that’s sexy. When we talk about the laws of physics and the quirks of perception after he’s brutalized my ass with spankings and poundings. All of that’s sexy. All these things accrue into one undeniable imprint: I love him for possessing so many facets, for his sweeping mind and open heart, for having the ability to get me to thaw.

He makes me relax and melt down my thighs.

I like our sex best of all because we never know what’s going to happen. We just follow the sensations, with no rush or predetermined destination.  It’s about exploration, about experimenting with the pressure and position of our mouths and hands and genitalia. The way he looks at me when we explore like that makes me feel so beautiful, so coveted, so valuable. He gazes up at me while he’s slowly working his fist into my pussy like I’m the most blessed, slutty, perfect woman he’s ever seen. It makes me ravenous and unapologetic. Pleasure is here to be had and I’m gonna get it.

When it’s time for him to cum, I’ll lay down on my belly, hips rattling upwards in anticipation. The tip of his cock starts to part my pussy’s lips and I know as soon as he’s in all the way it’s going to take so much resolve to not scream. There’s something about how his cock feels inside me in this precise position that makes me feel so full, that the span of him is brushing up against my cerebellum. So deliciously fleshed out and all I can manage to do shriek like a banshee. His thrusts get longer and more fluid as his body pushes down along the length of mine. I arch my ass up into his relentless thrusts and together we create a dizzying momentum. We are skin on skin contact from head to toe: our feet intertwine for better leverage, our hands encircle each other’s, his torso slides all along the curvature of my back. We are in a world of sweat and sounds as his head lowers close to my ear. He’s grunting harder, his breathing agitated. I am totally enclosed in his passion; an immaculate microcosm of carnal noises and the fragrances of our sex. It makes me squeal and moan too loudly. His hands wrap themselves around my mouth, suffocating the brunt of my racket. He pushes in so deep as I scream into his palms, slobbering from both ends of my body.

I’m always so enamored by his abandon when he cums. He thrusts into my pussy violently and holds it there, body completely constricted with assault of his orgasm. He sounds so hot as he’s writing his name in my womb, moaning out all his tension.

He’ll collapse onto me when the last of his cum is spent. We’ll stay that like, body stacked on body, limbs and genitals knotted up in the velvety afterglow. My vision is obscured by the tangle of my hair, his biceps framing my shoulders, and the delirious shadows of our sex. Our panting starts to become more regulated, more satiated. He withdraws his magic cock and I pout and plead:

"...oh… please stay… "

It turns out that that kind of pleasure will not kill me. It will only make me so intoxicated with his efforts, with his cock, with his mind, that I’ll be rendered to unbearable vulnerability. It will only make me want to be the most shameless, indulgent slut in the universe. It turns out that it’s not really his cock that is magic.

It’s his heart.

Testicular Scent; .an .avalanche

So few times it had happened that she was nearly overcome with awed paralysis: this was exactly as she imagined. This was the place she had adored for so many hours in the sprawl of her brain. And now, she was here.

Below him, under him, kissing, licking, gently and controlled, the slight raised ridge of skin that welded the sack of his testicles shut. Licking, kissing, right here and then right there, the place where diaphanous hairs branch out in wiry helixes. It would never matter how many women prior or how many women afterwards would find themselves looking at him from the testicles up. Looking at him the way she did now, as she pressed deeper into her kneel to lengthen the reach of her tongue. It would never matter because they wouldn’t feel what she felt here. No women would ever match her unblemished delight to experience this part of him.

Through her kisses, a nuzzled smile transmitted her joy into the velvety micro-grooves of his scrotum. Kissing right here, was almost too much for her composure. Her tongue caressed the origin of that scent that riddled her heart beat with such yearning. Breathing in right there, with a depth of inhalation keen on digesting his aroma direct from its source; to gore her senses in the hopes that his smell would never abandon her. Breathing in right here and knowing that in this moment, it was his scent that was oxygenating her bloodstream.

It was his scent that was sustaining her life.